On the Receiving End
by Click96
Summary: We've all been them- Altair, Ezio, Connor- and seen the battles through their eyes. But what was it like for those they faced, to be on the receiving end of that unstoppable drive and determination? Warning: Blood, death and what I suppose could be called angst. I suppose the first two were really obvious, actually...


**Well, I'm done. Oneshot from the view of one of those random guards that everyone just loves killing, ****on his motivations to fight and about his death****. What, you didn't think I wasn't going to cover the death? Idiots.**

**Warning: Blood, death and blackmail. So I put it as T.**

**If I owned Assassin's Creed, I wouldn't feel the need to pre-order AC4 or do A-levels, would I?**

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Sweaty hands grip the weapon nervously, knuckles white as you try desperately to stop it from slipping. Your breath rasps in your throat, raggedly, as you watch those in front of you get killed, murdered, _eliminated_ ruthlessly. It's not even a fight- it's a bloody massacre (Heh, bloody.)

Stop shaking. You're not scared. You are _not _scared.

Oh, no. No, no please, no. He can't have killed everyone, not yet, not so quickly. It can't be your turn to die, not yet.

Please.

He looks at you as the last of his opponents (_victims,_your mind whispers) falls to the ground, blood pouring out of the gaping hole in his chest and blossoming on the front of his uniform. He just stands, and looks as if to say, _'What are you waiting for?'_

The weapon in your hand starts to slip from nerveless fingers as your grip loosens, and you turn to run. You don't want to die on a cold, hard street as one of the masses. You don't want to feel the fear of staring your death in the face, watching helplessly as your life's blood pours slowly onto the floor.

Nothing can be worth this.

You stop short as you see your commander, backed by reinforcements jostling for position behind him. He cocks an eyebrow at you, and you gulp as you remember _why_ _you're doing this._

You've never been patriotic or obsessed with the glory battle brings. You've never felt the need to go out, fighting rumours of death swiftly delivered from shadows. You've never been one of those who joined, lusting for the thrill of violence and sadistic pleasure. You joined because you had no choice. You owed a debt, never mind that the debt goes back seven generations and doesn't really exist any more; they said you had a debt to pay. And when you objected, they idly pulled out a knife, played with it and casually asked, "How's the family?"

You're not doing it for glory, honour, some misplaced sense of duty, pride, loyalty or psychopathic need to kill. You're doing it to protect your family. And no matter how scared you are, how fast you run or how far, no difference would be made. The Assassin may kill you now, ending your life, but he has no interest in you. You are just another obstacle, another hurdle, a face in a crowd of countless dead. And as your grip tightens around the handle once more, and you raise your weapon, ready to fight it is a strangely comforting thought.  
He spares no thought for you outside of this one encounter, will never think of your face and life ever again. But the men at your back, they remember betrayal and cowardice, even though it cannot be called that if they never had your loyalty in the first place and you never chose this fight. They will remember if you run, if you turn from this battle, and they will come for your family.

The man in front of you _would not care._

So you charge. A yell rips itself from your throat as you attack desperately, feigning enthusiasm for the commander so that he does not find cause to kill your young son and his wonderful mother. You attack sloppily, retreating quickly as the reinforcements swarm around you and you hang back, hoping desperately, selfishly that the man in front of you will be killed by someone else, that you don't have to face death today.

It doesn't happen. They fall just as quickly, and then suddenly, there's a hand slamming into your chest, a quiet noise and then...

...everything...

...just...

...stops.

You can't breathe. The hand that slammed into your chest knocked the breath out of you and left you winded. You try to inhale, and wonder, _'when did breathing become so hard?' _Your lungs finally start moving again, only to spasm, jerking a damp substance into your mouth and down your face. _When did I fall on the floor?_

You look up, seeing the Assassin staring at your face briefly before he has to fight again. Under the hood, you see he is far from what you imagined, from what the rumours of superstitious old men made him out to be. He is no demon, no deformed monster, he's just a man, not any older than you. You try to show understanding and gratefulness in your eyes as you die-he freed you from a life full of fear of power-crazed, corrupt megalomaniacs with delusions of grandeur- and you think he got the message. And as he moves away, taking more and more lives, you close your eyes and exhale one last time, with only a longing for your family. You are glad, in a way, that the Assassin was your end. The men you served would have made it painful, personal. But the Assassin killed you swiftly, not prolonging your agony. They would have made a spectacle of you and your failure, after all, deserters are few and far between. But he only killed you out of need, and moved on, a force of habit, because for him, for him it was Tuesday.

* * *

**End.**

**I will edit if I feel it can be improved, and it can be applied to any of the games. Personally, I was thinking of 2 when it was being written.  
Reviews would be appreciated. Flames will be shot down with my cannon of doom.**


End file.
